


Memory

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't you never get tired of talkin', Greene?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr's Bethyl Week, Day Six. Prompt: "memory"
> 
> * * *

"Favourite song."

"Ain't got one."

"Everyone's got a favourite song!" She sighs when Daryl just lifts a shoulder and tosses another log on the fire. "Fine. Favourite movie, then."

"Don't you never get tired of talkin', Greene?"

"Don't you never get tired of bein' surly, Mr. Dixon?" she counters. She grins to take the sting out when he glances sheepishly at her, is pleased to see the corner of his mouth twitch before he turns his attention back to the squirrel on the spit. She finds herself studying his hands, the blunt nails rimmed with dirt that doesn't come out no matter how often they wash up in the streams they find, the lines in his palms creased with grime. His hands look like they ought to be rough, but she knows from experience that they're not. When they wrap around her waist to help her over a downed tree, they're gentle. And when they touch her on the arm to silently warn her of a walker ahead, they're soft. They're probably about the nicest hands she's ever seen, to be honest.

"Easy Rider," he says.

She blinks, so lost in thought that for a moment she's not quite sure what he's talking about. Then she smiles. "Never seen that one." 

She watches him pull the meat off the spit; deftly divide it up between the two plates. She takes the one he offers, then lightly nudges him with her foot. "Don't you want to know what my favourite movie is?"

"Nope," he says

But he ducks his head and grins at her through his shaggy bangs, so she just kicks him again. "It's 101 Dalmatians. The original cartoon, you know? When I was little—"

"You're still little," he teases.

"When I was little," she repeats primly, "Mama and Daddy took me to see it, at the revival theatre up near Mountville. It was the first time I ever went to the movies. They bought me this big tub of popcorn and a Coke and we sat right in the middle of the theatre. I remember it was so dark. For some reason I didn't expect the lights to go out."

She picks at the meat on her plate, is vaguely aware that Daryl is pouring water from their shared bottle into the plastic cups they found in the back of the sedan a few days ago. She can hear the rain pounding against the boarded up windows and the wind screaming around the corner of the house. But most of her is back in that theatre, with its red velvet curtains and the gold wall sconces and the deep seats with the wonky springs. With her mother and father on either side of her, both of them tall and strong and invincible, indestructible. 

"I loved the music," she continues. "And I loved the puppies. And I cried my heart out when Cruella DeVille stole them away, and when they were walking home in the snowstorm with the bad guys after them. I never cried so hard in my life."

Daryl snorts. "And this is your favourite movie."

"I know!" Beth says with a laugh. "But I guess it's those kind that stay with you the most. When there are good people with something on the line, something they're fighting for and they're struggling to make it and you just get so invested—"

"People?" Daryl interrupts. "Thought you said this movie was about dogs."

Beth blinks. "Wait, have you never seen 101 Dalmatians?"

When Daryl just shrugs and takes a bite of his squirrel, Beth sighs. She sets her plate down with most of the meal untouched, wipes her fingers on her dirty jeans. That grand old theatre in Mountville is nothing but an empty shell now; curtains dusty and moldering popcorn in a dirty case and mice living it up in the overstuffed seats. 

Daryl's right, she thinks. Sometimes I should just stop talking.

* * *

Beth's sitting in a lawn chair on the porch of the little house when she spots Daryl walking across the lawn. She puts down her book, watches as he climbs the stairs and leans against the railing.

"Glad I found ya home," he says in greeting.

She pushes her hair back, squints up at him. "Just got in a little while ago. It was my turn to work in the garden today. Corn's comin' up real nice."

"Saw ya there earlier," Daryl says. 

She nods, not surprised. Since they came across The Zone – since they scoped it out and met with its representatives and decided to risk living in the little community – she's noticed that he sticks close by. They've all got duties that keep them busy, mostly hunting and watch duty for Daryl, but at some point in her day she'll look up and see him there, keeping an eye on her. Making sure she's safe, even though her knife – his knife – is always strapped to her hip and she knows how to use it.

"Sasha and Tyreese home?"

Beth shakes her head. "Sasha's got watch tower duty. And Tyreese said he had somethin' he had to do tonight." She shrugs. "Some kind of favour for somebody. He didn't say what, but he was actin' mighty mysterious."

"Huh," Daryl says. 

She watches the little smirk play at the side of his mouth, kicks out at him with one sneakered foot. "What are you up to, Daryl Dixon?"

In answer, he drops his backpack to his feet, rummages inside and comes up with a battered disc. Her eyes widen at the familiar sight of a deliciously evil DeVille and a whole lot of cavorting puppies, and she's on her feet and grabbing for the disc before she even realizes she's moved. 

"How—" she manages to get out.

"Been searchin' every damn house in a five mile radius," Daryl says, "ever since they got the electricity goin'."

Her face falls. "We're not supposed to use it for anything frivolous."

"Kidnapped puppies ain't _frivolous_ ," Daryl says. "Kidnapped puppies is a damn serious matter. 'Sides, we gotta put the lights out so that'll make up for it. Gotta turn the lights off when watchin' movies, ya know."

For a moment Beth thinks she might cry. And when he reaches into the bag and pulls out a slightly crushed container of Jiffy-Pop, she ducks her head because she _does_ cry, a sob escaping her before she can cover her mouth with her hand. 

The hand that reaches up to brush her hair back from her eyes might be a little cleaner now – Daryl can never quite get all the dirt from under his nails – but it is just as gentle as ever. She smiles and takes that hand and leads him into the little house, and decides right then that she is never letting go.


End file.
